December 18th.
Only a week from Christmas! Mrs. Bassett’s tea was delightful; that is to me. Her house was not very big, being semi-detached and the crowding was certainly dreadful.
I’m sure those present were all such ladies as Uncle would have approved of, but somehow to me, they seemed much alike, some even shabby, and their kindness and graciousness I took (Dear me! am I becoming a weak snob? It looks like it) as an effort to make up for their deficiencies in plumage.
Shortly after breakfast Mrs. Bassett rang up Mumsie and asked if I would care to go.
“A waste of good money,” was Uncle’s comment.
“But the woman must do something to return the hospitality shown Ethel, and it is out of the question for her to afford a dance,” stormed Mumsie.
“But if she did not allow Ethel to know all and sundry, she need not feel it incumbent on her to make this sort of return,” retorted Uncle, nailing his colours to the mast. “Moreover, when I was a boy the full expenses of a dance was some ten dollars and we enjoyed it. To-day the pace is tuned so high that a dance at home costs ten times as much; and, for a flare up at a hotel or public-hall, a thousand dollars is too little. To so-called leaders of fashion, like Mrs. Lien, or social climbers like the Mount woman, the advertisement is no doubt worth the money. But few people in Canada who are truly distinguished can feel it a satisfactory way of spending money.”
“A woman—” began Mumsie.
“There is an old tradition that if a woman wishes to give her daughter a run in the matrimonial market, it is necessary to bring her out. But when I look back on the society belles I have known, the percentage of them who are now old maids, or have become victims of unfortunate alliances is enormous.”
“The crooked stick at last,” I suggested.